Page 201 of Money Reigns
Olivia
One Month Later
The smell of peanut butter fills the kitchen, warm and thick, clinging to the air the way memories cling to me. I stand over the mixing bowl, wooden spoon in hand, fighting back the ache in my chest.
I remember the way War leaned against the counter in his shirt unbuttoned just enough to look human, watching me scoop dough onto the tray.
“I want to be the last man you ever make peanut butter cookies for,”he’d said, dead serious, like it was some blood oath instead of a batch of cookies.
I’d laughed at him then. Called him ridiculous. But I went along with it, because the way he looked at me while biting into one, like I’d given him something rare and holy, made me feel like maybe I had.
Now the memory burns. He was supposed to be the last. And here I am, back in Brokenwoods, apron dusted with flour, baking peanut butter cookies for no one.
I slide the tray into the oven, shut the door with a dull clang, and press my palms flat against the counter. My heart aches with the ridiculousness of it all.
“Smells good in here.”
Dean’s voice snaps me out of it. He saunters into the kitchen, hair damp from a shower, hoodie sleeves pushed up, worn jeans tucked into thick socks like he’s still thawing out. Before I can warn him, his hand snags a cooling cookie from the tray on the counter.
“Dean—”
Too late. He takes a huge bite, crumbs falling onto his hoodie.
The sight shouldn’t hurt. But it does. Watching him bite into it feels like he’s taking something that doesn’t belong to him, something that should have stayed War’s.
I look away, chest tight, pretending it doesn’t matter. Pretending I didn’t bake them for a ghost.
I force a smile as Dean chews, but the sting hits my eyes before I can stop it. I turn back to the counter, wiping at them quick, hoping he doesn’t notice.
“Mmm,” he says around another bite. “Haven’t had these in forever. You spoil us.”
I swallow hard. These weren’t supposed to be his.
Dean leans his hip against the counter, licking a crumb from his thumb, completely oblivious to the way my chest is unraveling.
“So,” he drawls, voice light, teasing. “When’s Mr. Moneybags rolling into Brokenwoods to apologize and whisk you away? Because I gotta say, I’d pay to see that show.”
My hands still.
Maybe never, I think.
Maybe not at all.
The words scrape my throat as I say them aloud. “Maybe never.”
And God, it hurts. Hurts more than the fight. Hurts more than leaving. Hurts because the truth is uglier than I can stand, because I unblocked his number a week after coming home. I waited. Still wait. And he hasn’t called. Hasn’t texted.
Not once.
I grip the counter tighter, holding myself together while Dean keeps talking like it’s all a joke.
Dean snorts, finishing his cookie. “Maybe I’ll just kick Mr. Moneybags’ ass for you. Guy needs it, don’t he?”
Before I can answer, boots thud in the hall.
“Kick whose ass?” Chase asks, shaking snowflakes from his flannel like he walked through a blizzard to get here. He swipes a cookie off the tray without hesitation.
My heart seizes. Watching him bite into it,War’s cookie,feels like someone’s wringing me out from the inside.
